The main factions in the Provincial Assembly had divided on more or less English political lines for a long time now. De Lancey and his rich Anglican crowd were generally called Tories, and they reckoned that Master, as a vestryman of Trinity with a son at Oxford, was one of them. The Whigs, led by Livingston and a group of Presbyterian lawyers, might stand up for the common man and oppose anything they considered an abuse of royal authority, but they were still level-headed gentlemen. As a moderate, non-partisan fellow, John Master had plenty of friends among them too.

So surely, he’d felt, if decent men like himself used common sense, the affairs of the colonies could be set in good order. But it hadn’t happened. The last five years had been a disaster.

For a short time, when the Stamp Act had been repealed, he had hoped that good sense might prevail. He’d been one of those who’d urged the Assembly to supply provisions to the British troops again.

“God knows,” he’d pointed out to one of the Assembly Whigs, “we need the troops, and they have to be fed and paid.”

“Can’t do it, John,” was the reply. “Point of principle. It’s a tax we haven’t agreed to.”

“So why don’t we just agree to it?” he’d asked.

But if he could see why the ministers in London felt the colonies were being obstructive, why did the London men, in turn, have to be so arrogant?

For their next move had been an insult. It had come from a new minister, named Townshend: a series of duties, slapped on a whole range of items including paper, glass and tea. “New minister, new tax,” Master sighed. “Can’t they play any other tune?” But the sting was in the tail. The money raised wasn’t only to pay for the troops. It would be used to pay the salaries of the provincial governors and their officials too.

And, of course, the New York Whigs were furious.

“The governors have always been paid by our elected Assembly,” they protested. “It’s the one thing that gives us some control over them. If the governors are all paid from London, they can ignore us entirely.”

“It’s obvious, John,” a fellow merchant told him. “London wants to destroy us.” And then he had added: “So to hell with them.”

In no time, the merchants were refusing to trade with London again. The Assembly, it seemed to Master, was losing its way. But worst of all had been the damned Sons of Liberty. Charlie White and his friends. They’d practically taken over the streets.